The Company We Keep
by PiffPoffSplash
Summary: Underneath everything is the slight constriction of muscles and the knowledge that Moriarty has escaped. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade learn to leave behind the threat of Moriarty. They will get through it, they always do.


John, he likes to imagine, is good at watching. He's even better at playing with his mobile until Sherlock gives the indication that it's time to move. He's almost positive that normal people don't spend their nights waiting on high functioning sociopaths, but they are certainly missing out on the fun of it all. Tonight, he and Sherlock are waiting in the attic of a rundown shop John frequently passes, but never enters. This time, it's three painstaking hours of being pent up in a cramped space with creaky floors and a draft. John sits with his back resting against a splintered support beam, Sherlock next to the only window. The detective's eyes, no doubt, are fixed upon the door across the street.

The door belongs to a bakery that John is still trying to connect to their current case. When he asked Sherlock, the detective gave him a detached reply, only saying: _flour_. Hours later, Sherlock has refrained from adding any more details. Occasionally, the detective mumbles something, but his voice is too low, and thoughts are too scrambled for John to pick up on it. At any rate, his words are not meant for John, so the doctor leaves it be.

The case isn't the strangest as cases go. Four bodies, no direct connection between them except that all, with the exception of one, live in a close proximity of each other. Add an influx of tourist activity and preparations for a festival this coming weekend, and you have something resembling the backbone of a case. Somewhere nestled in between these facts is a connection that only Sherlock can put together. That is exactly why Lestrade pulled Sherlock into the investigation four days ago. This is the second night stuck in the attic, and John has stopped taking down notes; this isn't making it to the website.

"Tea?" John asks, producing a thermos from his pack. He takes a sip and makes a face, "It's a bit cold."

"No," Sherlock responds, obviously distracted. The window is covered in a thin layer of dust, obscuring him from the outside world.

John settles back, placing the thermos between his legs. Truth be told, he's surprised he received a response at all. With a self-satisfied grin, John chalks it up to Sherlock actually listening to him about manners and social etiquette. That is until he hears Sherlock's annoyed reproach of: _don't be ridiculous _ripple through his mind. He finished the first cap full of tea.

Sherlock drums an erratic melody on the wooden floor. Too much pent up energy from the chase being confined to this small room is starting to leak out of the detective. John hopes it won't take long for a sign, any sign, of -well, any sign of whatever he is looking for to appear.

Only a few months ago john would have sighed his tenth sigh of frustration by now. Another case of withheld motives and suspects. He's only recently slipped into the comfort of it all; half-finished sentences, and single worded explanations that seem to have no reason -only Sherlock never does anything without reason. Just parts of a whole that make up the creature of Sherlock Holmes. And John, the faithful blogger, understands it all-well, he certainly understands it more than anyone else.

"Sure you need me?" John had asked. "I've got the clinic early in the morning." A normal person would have stayed home. Had a cuppa, watched some telly, and gone to sleep at a decent hour. But John wasn't like most people and he likes to think that Sherlock prefers him that way.

"Don't be so simple," Sherlock replied. "Of course I need you."

That was all John needed to follow the detective to this attic without any hesitation. The clues will come together eventually, they always do. Even if Sherlock needs to lay them out to the doctor like he is teaching a child single letters of a larger word. John feels Sherlock's mind running through theories, connecting streams of data, and calculating probable outcomes. Eventually multiple strands will come together and produce a picture only Sherlock's mind can fathom. It's nothing short of brilliant.

John pulls his jacket tighter around himself, the night is quickly reminding him that winter is on its way. Sherlock contorted himself into a crouching position near the window. The sight is enough to make John's body twitch. For a second, he debates telling Sherlock he should move, stretch- but Sherlock beats him to it.

"Will you stop that," Sherlock snaps. "It's hard enough to think in here without you fusing about like a concerned housewife."

"I haven't said anything."

"John, you know perfectly well that you don't have to _say_ anything."

John moves away from the support beam he has been leaning against. "And besides, I'm not fusing-when do I fuss?" he asks, not particularly trying to defend himself. "Just don't walk round the flat tomorrow complaining about your back." His response earns him a smirk from the detective.

He repositions himself near Sherlock, falling into a comfortable silence. Outside, the streets are deserted. With the shops closed and no pubs nearby, there is no reason for anyone to stray into this neighborhood. The peace below is a stark contrast to their life. Briefly, John wonders if he could ever fit onto that kind of life again. He knows the answer and it fits him fine.

John takes himself away from his thoughts, and refocuses on the case. "And it has to be this particular shop?"

"Yes, it has to be this particular shop," Sherlock nearly snaps, clearly annoyed by the interruption. John can hear him finishing: _keep up_.

"Right." No, John doesn't get it. But he's content with sitting in this attic, not getting it, even if he has to be at the clinic in four hours. But just to clarify: "So the flour-"

Sherlock runs both of his hands through his hair with a grunt. Once, that action would make John doubt his presence alongside the detective. "It's unique John. Imported, probably from Spain, maybe France. It gives the biscuits a particular texture, not common to most of the bakeries in London, but common enough to be known to come from this particular shop."

"And all the victims had the biscuits on them." John says, with building clarity.

Sherlock gives him a pointed stare. "Don't be so obvious, it's insulting. Remnants of the flour." He brings his finger to his lips. "Our killer is careless or stupid."

"The flour, of course" John says with a smile. How could he miss that, he thinks as he stretches out his arms. He glances at his phone. Two and a half hours until the clinic.

"Tired?" Sherlock asks suddenly.

"Never," John replies. It's close enough to the truth. Three weeks of running around London sewers and misjudging two landings from balconies, makes spending two nights watching a bakery from an attic rather welcoming.

When Sherlock finally looks at John, there is a hint of a smile on his face. "Good."

John repositions himself so that he is closer to the window. He debates standing to ease the cramp forming in his legs but doesn't think his back can handle the stress of bending in such an obscure angel.

Sherlock turns his attention back to the quiet street. John takes the moment to observe his partner – friend. The detective surely notices but doesn't alter anything about himself. Not the frustration or anxiety he feels, common enough feelings when he's so close to breaking a case but just one piece of the puzzle that he hasn't been able to get ahold of. The slight tension in his shoulders- anger, probably directed at himself for taking this long to put the pieces together

Underneath everything, however, is the constriction of muscles. Tension budding from everything that hasn't been resolved yet. John doesn't want to think about it, but he can't help but picture Moriarty. The psychopath had dug himself into their lives like a parasite. They haven't spoken about him, not really, but John can guess at the toll Moriarty's escape took on Sherlock. And now, Sherlock allows John to see it all.

When Sherlock meets John's gaze, John detects a mild amusement. He returns Sherlock's smile.

"And what did you observe?" The detective asks.

John brings a finger to his lips. "That you're an utter ass."

They share a quick laugh, and for that second, Sherlock relaxes. Even John forgets about this case, about the fact that Moriarty is still out there. They are back to simply being the nuisance of Scotland Yard and the doctor. The moment, however, is lost when Sherlock springs forward, eyes locking onto a dark figure entering the building. He lets out a sigh that sounds nothing close to a victory. "Of course," he mutters, "how dull."

John doesn't ask, at least not now.

They descend the stairs in silence, until Sherlock says: "Text Lestrade, would you?"

John taps the pocket with his mobile. "Already have."

.

.

Lestrade's car is parked outside the flat when John returns from the clinic. The sight takes away some of the fatigue (but none of the stiffness) of spending a night in the attic. It's enough of a boost to have John taking the steps two at a time until he is standing in the doorway of the flat.

Sherlock is pacing in front of the mantle, not acknowledging John's entrance. His presence screams energy and movement and John finds himself smiling in spite of himself. In contrast, Lestrade is sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed. He almost looks relaxed with his weight sinking into the cushion of the couch. It no longer surprises John how easily Lestrade makes himself so at home in their flat. He knows it has something to do with the past he shares with Sherlock, but what that actually entails, he still isn't entirely sure of.

"John," Lestrade says with a genuine smile. A folder is resting next to him, but it has clearly been forgotten.

John returns the smile – half in greeting, half in excitement. "Something new?" He asks as he takes a seat on his chair. The transition from doctor to consulting detective assistant comes naturally these days. He glances as the side table briefly, wondering if he should write down the details.

"Another body," Lestrade admits with a sigh that can only come from his bones. He diverts his eyes and John finds himself remembering hollow words: _Every new victim is a reminder that you should have done better. _"Still not sure if it's connected. If it is-" he trails off, uncomfortably rubbing his neck.

If it is, then Sherlock was wrong about the previous man. But Sherlock is never wrong. Well, hardly ever.

Sherlock is almost vibrating with energy as he slips into the depths of his mind. John still can't fully comprehend what he would find there. He just knows it's vast enough for his friend to get lost in it. Lestrade notices it to because he suddenly focuses his attention fully on John. "How long do you think he'll shut us out for this time?"

"He doesn't even notice when I leave the flat for two days," John doesn't bother hiding his affection. "Frankly, I'm surprised he manages to keep himself ali-"

"Will you two shut up, or have you forgotten there is still a murderer out there?" Sherlock snaps. He spins on his heels and starts pacing again.

John and Lestrade share an understanding smile. They have been sharing a lot of those lately. It's nice not being the only one who gets it-_Sherlock Holmes_. Maybe at varying levels but certainly the knowledge is there. John wonders if he would still have his relationship with Sherlock if Lestrade didn't have something resembling one first.

He points towards the kitchen and they relocate themselves. John sits so that Sherlock is still in view. The detective is still pacing the living room. In a few minutes, he'll reach for the violin.

"He's always done this-the disappearing," Lestrade says slowly. "Never once broke concentration."

John nods, suddenly very aware of Sherlock's physical presence in the other room, even if his mind is splintering into several parts at once. "It's brilliant," he says, because really, it is.

"First time he did it, I thought he was, well-" Lestrade clears his throat and decides that it's better to leave that topic in the past. "Well, old habits."

_Old habits_, John thinks, is the reason Lestrade still contacts Sherlock five years later. For a second, he debates asking Lestrade several questions about his past with Sherlock, but knows the answers should come from Sherlock, if at all.

They settle back in their seats, not expecting Sherlock to join them any time soon. Both men have learned not to wait, but they still do. _Old habits_. At the core, both Lestrade and John are men of action, and they will always be ready to respond. Still, they talk about the match-which they both missed, and make plans to watch the next one at the pub. Lestrade mentions his wife and the theatre, and for all the strides their own friendship has made, John doesn't think they are close enough for him to voice his opinion on that.

They both fall into their own mind until Lestrade clears his throat. "We'll catch this one," he says, with a hard earned intuition.

John nods in agreement, and lingers on the word _we_. A warmth settles in John's chest when he realises that this is what has become familiar in his life. _And everything started with, who would want to live with me_. He feels his shoulders relax against the wood of the chair. "Left cupboard," he says with a small grin. "Left cupboard," he repeats when Lestrade doesn't move.

Lestrade turns with a smile fixed upon his face. "Rum?"

"It's not expensive."

Lestrade shurgs. "Works for me."

John holds his glass loosely in his hand. He takes another look at Sherlock and then focuses on Lestrade. The case is coming to a close, he can feel it. And tonight, in this company, he feels like celebrating.

.

.

Rain presses down hard on the window. The sky is too dark for it to be midday, even with the clouds. Not that time has any real relevance, especially today. Thirtieth day straight with no case, not even a rumor of something to come. Sherlock can feel himself starting to shake, even if John says that it's all in his head. Sherlock has long since abandoned his position near the widow, trading it for the well-worn cushions of his couch. With his head leaning against the hand rest of the couch, he tries to loosen the muscles is his back.

The floor boards above him creak. John. Up from his nap then. The doctor has become fond of naps since the pool. Even Sherlock's body seems to be betraying him with heavy eye lids and the want of rest. He deletes the useless collection of data from his brain. The creaking of the floor boards shifts to the stairs.

He doesn't miss that John's bed didn't scrape against the floor-no nightmares. His mental state must be improving. He doesn't bother thinking in hypotheticals. Maybe he should have kept a closer eye on John. It's a useless observation but he realises with a sharp pang of frustration that he can't delete the information. The fact is that he didn't include John in his equation and Moriarty used that to his advantage- it would be the only time he would have one.

He would prefer that John didn't have to remember him holding the gun to the bomb, but it has become a fact now, inseparable from their-_partnership_. He lingers on the word, not particularly sure of what to make of it. It certainly doesn't apply to the guidelines he has set up for himself thus far. He will need to analyses and broaden his definitions; possibly make a special definition for John Watson.

"Setting the mood to read dark poetry?" John asks as he enters the living room. His tone is light-hearted but tightness lingers underneath it. He flicks on a lamp and it takes Sherlock a second to adjust to the light. John glances at the clock and rubs the back of his neck. "Bugger, only meant to nod off for a minute, not the whole afternoon."

Ignoring, or simply accepting the silence from Sherlock, John walks towards the kitchen. He begins shuffling through the cupboards, his movements are just a little too quick to be casual. Being the proper soldier that he is, John Watson is an expert on adapting to the pretense of normality. No one would ever guess that he had a vest of semtex strapped to his chest as he asks them if they take sugar. But then, no one really knows John Watson.

"I think I'll have Lestrade pop over for a bit sometime this week," John says after a moment.

Sherlock props himself on his elbows. "Why? Is there a case?"

"No, Sherlock, there is no case."

Sherlock throws himself back onto the couch. "Of course there isn't," he says, rubbing at his temples. "Why would he contact you first if there was."

John lets out a sigh-_you really don't get it_-before answering: "To have tea, Sherlock. To talk. That's what people do."

Wrapping the blanket around himself, Sherlock can hardly contain a sneer. "How very domestic of you. Taking pointers from Mrs .Hudson?"

He hears, rather doesn't hear, any movement from the kitchen. Sherlock silently counts the seconds with John. The doctor only counts to five before the movement resumes. That means John has patience to spare today, and Sherlock doesn't have the energy to keep pushing him. When John returns to the kitchen, he gives Sherlock _that look_, but it falls flat once it's accompanied with a cup of tea.

"Sometimes it's nice having company." It's nice having a distraction, but Sherlock spares John the psychoanalysis.

John doesn't have to clarify what he needs a distraction from. The name floats heavily behind every case that has come to them-Moriarty. It was (almost) easy enough to let it be when there were criminals to apprehend and government secrets to protect but the recent lull made the reality bear down on the occupants of 221b-Moriarty had eluded them -had eluded_ him_.

_I'll burn the heart out of you. _

More than once, Sherlock found himself at a standstill when it came to the criminal mastermind. All of his networks were silent on that front, even Mycroft's connections were mum. There was something in the prevailing calm that he was missing, some warning, or message. Moriarty's absence was a sign of things to come.

"It will do you some good, too," John says opening his paper. As predicted he reads the horoscope first. "If you can manage to stop sulking for a few hours."

"Hardly," Sherlock says but it's a lazy response. As far as unwelcome guests go, Lestrade is manageable. He would just need to suffer his presence for a few hours, until he or John would predictably bring up going to the pub- so pedestrian.

He glances at the bookshelf, but can't bring himself to study fingerprint patterns left on books. If only John had not hidden his cigarettes then he could occupy his mind for a few seconds.

"No," John says from behind his newspaper.

Sherlock bolts upright, clasping his hands together. He doesn't need to see John's face to know that the doctor is smiling, no, smirking.

"I need a case," Sherlock says, jumping up from his chair. The action no longer causes the solider in John to ready. Not in this flat, with the chair that contours slightly to John's body, and the China that Harry sent over resting neatly in the cupboard. John moves the paper before Sherlock can snatch it from him. "There's nothing, Sherlock. I've already checked. Lestrade hasn't called, and the Flour Perpetrator was apprehended two weeks ago." A gentle sigh escapes him- disappointment.

"The Flour Perpetrator?"

"It doesn't need to be clever, Sherlock. It's not going on my blog." John settles back in his chair, the smirk returning to his face. With a quick flick of his wrist, the paper is back in front of his face. "Right then, you're cold."

"Cold? I'm no-ah. Ah." He raises an eyebrow at the doctor before moving next to the mantle.

John shakes his head. "Still cold. And you can only have _one_."

Sherlock spins on his heels, and scans the room. Instinct tells him to look in the kitchen, but no, John had been saving this for a rainy day. He looks over loose papers, and old plates, and clothes thrown over furniture. He doesn't miss that John's presence is thrown about the room as much as his own. It's an oddly easy thought to accept. Outside, the rain still drums against the window, and Moriarty is still on the prowl. Tonight, however, there is a different game being played in 221B, and Sherlock isn't going to lose.

.

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A/N: A snowy weekend means Sherlock fanfiction! Once again, thank you everyone for reading! As always, please review and let me know what you think.


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